A Terror Of His Own
by VegetaCold
Summary: Danny is cut with Fright Knight's blade, and experiences a terror of his own. Silly One Shot.


I can remember my first fight with the Fright Knight—that is one Halloween I will never forget, and I guess that's rightfully so, as I've never seen so many dollar-store plastic decorations come to life as I had then (and I say _so many_ because under my dad's roof, a lot of crazy stuff goes on and inanimate objects suddenly possessing souls is really not unheard of). And while it was a pretty wild night for me, my best friend Tucker has since made it known that his was a whole lot worse, and after my latest run in with the sword-wielding ghost, I believe him.

See, on that seemingly—as it was only a year ago, after all, even if it felt like longer—far-off Halloween, during my battle with the armored man, Tucker was cut with his blade; now, in case you don't have another best friend like I do who finds it fun to read up on old ghost legends in her free time, and don't have knowledge about this not-so-mythical spirit, Fright Knight's blade, when coming in contact with the flesh of a mortal, sends the victim into a dimension where their worst fears come to life and are the entirety of the domain. For Tucker, this meant that he was sent to a world where no technology worked, and if you knew Tucker like I do, you would realize that this was the equivalent of sending him to hell, casting him into the lake of fire his family, very religious, had cautioned me of one night when I'd gone to his house for dinner and they'd deemed me just by my appearance to be a soul in need of saving. And while his fear had always seemed genuine, it was a little difficult to sympathize when I had not experienced this thing myself. Although, it was pretty easy to make fun of him on the morning of this most recent Halloween, before the encounter that would undoubtedly haunt me for the rest of my days, about his technology snag, as I'd called it, the year before. It was wrong of course, but who could blame me? After all, I didn't think the Fright Knight would be an issue this Halloween, and I certainly didn't expect to experience the terror he had the year prior.

After this night, I would never make fun of Tucker Foley again.

I guess I had been distracted as I fought him—at least, that's what I'd like to blame it on rather than a lack of my own skills, but, whatever the case, I guess it doesn't really matter, because either way, that night I failed, meeting the same fate as my fright with the swift slice of Fright Knight's gleaming silver sword into my skin. And from then on, I really did know what the true meaning of terror was, because my adventures in horror-land went something like this (or, at least, _began_, because they were long and there were many):

When my screams subsided and I removed my hands, which I'd drawn up to my face upon the blade's initial penetration in my flesh, from my eyes, I was met with a rather disturbing view of the world I had entered—my world of fear. I was standing in what looked to be the living room of our home in Amity Park; there was the same ugly couches, frayed rugs and the same outdated wall clock. There were the fake plastic plants I had come to hate with a passion, the same tiled floor and sharp metal table, which I'd become very familiar with after my sister Jazz had shoved me over so that I fell and my head connected with its protruding corner. Yes, this place was identical to the one I'd grown up in and called home, except for one _small-ish _thing—instead of the familiar portrait of my mom, dad, Jazz, and I huddled together and all looking less than pleased, which had singularly adorned the wall for years, there was a different picture of a different family; I mean, my mom and myself were in it, yes, but it obviously did not belong to us because in that chilling still-frame we now had no sister/daughter and there was a new father/husband. The guy with his arms around us was not the large, happy-go-lucky man in his orange jumpsuit that, despite the years of embarrassment I'd endured on his behalf, I loved so strongly.

No—the guy in the picture was none other than my arch enemy, Vlad Masters.

The adjoining room was our kitchen, and from it I could hear a man's voice. As you have probably guessed, it did not belong to Jack Fenton—I was not so lucky. It was Vlad's voice, of course, and there was another voice, one lighter and unforgettable to the kid who'd lived with her since birth, interacting with it. My mother's. I guess I knew that they were talking—or rather, what the situation was—but suddenly I found myself striding to the entryway, as if I needed to satisfy the sick need within my mind to confirm the fate that was to be my forever.

They had just finished setting the table, where steaming bowls of bland, family food—chicken, potatoes, a salad—sat, when I walked in. My mother was seated already, but Vlad stood, placing a knife by a third spot at the table. When they heard me come in, they both looked up and smiled.

"Hello, son," Vlad said, and left the table to approach me. "You're just in time for supper. Your mother and I were so hungry we were about to begin without you."

You see, the ironic thing of all this is that the only one who saw me get cut with the blade was my best friend, Tucker, and he was not too keen on helping me after I'd teased him the way I did. So I'm trapped here, but I guess there may still be hope for me—after all, I haven't explored all ways of killing myself just yet.


End file.
